A Hero's Death
by violentbliss
Summary: America thought he couldn't die, but he soon finds out he is very wrong. Hints of past RussiaXUSA, Character Death, first fanfic so it kind of stinks...


**Hi~ This is my first fanfiction ever so please enjoy.**

**Warnings (it's not that bad): Character death, Some language, hints at past RussiaXUSA and current UKXFrance**

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><p>Once, he had said it wasn't possible for him to die. He was too strong to fall to anyone's hands, and he held the belief his economy controlled the economies of all the countries around him. It was an arrogant notion at best, but who was going to prove the superpower wrong? When he fell into a depression in the nineteen thirties, many other nations in Europe and Asia were effected in one way or another. In the United Kingdom, exports had dropped fifty percent, and unemployment was up to a high of twenty percent. In Thailand, then known as the kingdom of Siam, the American's depression contributed to the end of the absolute monarchy of Kind Rama VII.<p>

In the early two-thousands when his economy was worse for wear, as was the rest of the world's. When his government failed so did many others. As he rebuilt, others looked to him for support. "Guess what, England." he said once to his former caretaker. He was visiting the short blond for nonpolitical reasons. The Brit had invited him for tea- not one of the American's favorite things (it was like coffee's funny uncle), and it was nice to get away from everything once and awhile even if he knew how the visit would end. Each time, England would end up yelling and screaming at him for something stupid, and as he would slam the door behind the other he would say something along the lines of 'I never want to see you again'.

Said man looked up from his light brown tea to his 'younger brother'. "What is it, America?" he asked, beginning to grow tired of the others company. He really did care for America, but the man always drained his energy quickly. It was one of the reasons their meetings ended in friendly fights.

"I'm Superman, and the world's my Lois Lane." America said with his trademark smile. He looked healthy with glowing sun kissed skin and bright blue eyes behind Texas, his glasses. England sighed and shook his head at the younger nation's arrogance. It had been awhile since he called himself Superman, though. He usually favored Captain America, and this was because he hated Communism, his outfit was patriotic, and he got to fight along side with Wolverine during World War II. Or was it World War I? Honestly, England didn't care for comics in the first place.

"If you're Superman, what's you kryptonite?" England asked. America pouted.

"You're taking things way to seriously, Arthur." Their conversation went on from there, but as much as he didn't want to admit it, he knew what his kryptonite was. Actually, it was more like who it was. The only one that had made America doubt himself was his fellow nation, Russia. The tall nation's face was what America thought of when he thought of the enemy. For years, Russia stood for everything America was against, and even after Russia was cured of the communist curse, they still could not get along.

Most saw the Cold War as unresolved sexual tension (for the most part it was), but there was a side no other nation saw to the war. Neither Russia nor America wanted others to see the pure rage towards each other. They both felt betrayed by the other. During America's Civil War, Russia was the one to help him stay strong as he literally was being torn apart. He was the one who stitched his wounds shut, and he was the only one who was willing to help. Suddenly, when Russia became communist America hated him. Russia felt America should have been happy for him for finally gaining stability. He finally no longer felt lonely in the Soviet Union, but the one nation he wanted there most refused to even congratulate him. Instead the same nation cheered when it all came down on Russia, and he was alone once again.

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One time, America's visit to England ended on a much more sour note than normal. In these times, America wasn't looking so great. His nation was ready to collapse on itself, but he hid it from everyone but England because he was the only one he truly trusted. America, in his ignorance, broke a precious tea set the other had sat aside to be cleaned. The tea kettle and cups had been a gift to England from one of his favorite queens, Queen Elizabeth I. When he saw the rose dusted cups shattered on the ground, he snapped. In the end, America had to limp out of the Brit's villa with three gun shot wounds in his left leg, one above his temple, and another two in his stomach.

America didn't think much of it after the wounds healed about a week later. Yes, England had been much angrier than ever before, but he always forgave America. He was his little Alfie, his precious younger brother. He would never do anything to betray him. Unfortunately, America couldn't of been more wrong. In his rage, England did something very stupid. He went to the pub and drank himself sick.

Normally, this wouldn't of been a problem. In fact, it happened from time to time, and those nights usually ended up with him in France's bed. This time was different. Instead of the perverted Frenchman, England's drinking partner was a tall platinum blond who listened oh so closely as the other complained drunkenly about America. The words that came from the Brit's mouth that night surely damned America.

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The first strike was unexpected and powerful. Russian troops stormed the coast of California one sunny spring day, destroying everything in their way. America didn't know what happened. He had been visiting Japan when he felt his leg burning. Almost automatically, he was rushed back home, and within hours, war was declared.

As hard as he fought back, he couldn't deal a strong enough blow against the Russian. One by one, he watched as his states were taken away, and one by one, he felt himself becoming weaker. After four years, the only thing that remained of him were the original thirteen colonies. "How did this happen?" he demanded, pounding his fist against the wall. Tears threatened to fall as he struggled with the reality of him losing a war. The worst part of it all? No one was helping him.

Just after he declared war on Russia, France became a territory of England. The union of the two nations made their neighbors nervous. Spain was the first to take action on the union when he attacked England. The combination of England and France easily defeated Spain, and he too became part of the United Kingdom. From there it was just chain reaction. Japan was ready to help America, and just as he shipped more weapons to American forces, he was attacked by North Korea and Vietnam. Asia, Europe, and North America were all engaged in horrid wars and none were able to help each other.

America had never felt so alone, and it was that damn Commie's fault. His current president was begging him to surrender to Russia, at least then some of his people may be spared, but even in his weakest moment, the American was stubborn. "I am the hero. I will win. I can't die." he told himself as he reached to push Texas up. He sighed and slipped down the alley wall when he realized he no longer had Texas. Two years before, the glasses suddenly broke, and they became foggy. "I can't die. I just can't." he mumbled. "I'm the United fucking States of America."

Slowly, he stood up. Gun shots could be heard not too far off, and he knew he had to leave the area before the enemy came and took this area too. He didn't have many more places to go, and even if he had somewhere, the chances were he wouldn't be able to reach the place. He couldn't move as quickly as he use too; he was too weak. He walked down the war torn streets until he came to a large body of water. Had he really been pushed back to the ocean? "Hello, Fredka. It was about time I came running into you, da?" a childish voice purred.

America froze and felt his heart drop. He knew that accent far to well, and now, it stuck fear throughout him. Slowly, he turned to face his enemy. Saying the Russian looked well would have been an understatement. He seemed to glow with good health despite his naturally pale skin. Even his violet eyes were brighter and more obvious. America could remember a time when those eyes were dull and lifeless, but he could also remember how those eyes use to look on him with an emotion that could have mirrored love. He swallowed the lump in his throat. "Russia." he said, coolly. He grabbed the hand gun from his back pocket and aimed at the platinum blond's head.

The Russian slipped the gun he had in his hand into his long tan coat, and he tugged on the front of his pale pink scarf, a smile on his face. From the inside of his coat he pulled out his metal pipe. "You do not look well, Fredka." There wasn't even a hint of concern in the accented English.

"I wonder why, Commie." he snapped back. Russia's smile did not cease.

"I do not like it when you call me that, _Fredka_. I am not a communist country now, da?" He took a step closer to America, cocking his head to the side a bit. He looked absolutely frightening, but America did his best to look like he didn't care. In fact, he glared. "Do not look at me like that, Alfred."

"Don't call me that. You have no right." America growled when his human name was used once again. "I'm the United States of America." Russia laughed lightly at this and shook his head. He began closing the gap between the two. America's hand trembled with each step the other took, and he could him it in himself to pull the trigger of his gun. He was too afraid to shoot the tall Russian, but where did the fear come from?. Surely, it wasn't just because of the war that was currently going on between the two, but he didn't want to believe it was because he still felt something for the ex-communist.

"Do not be silly, Alfred. There is nothing left of your country. You are no longer America; you are just Fredka." Russia said, darkly.

"I'm still America, _Vanya." _he snapped back. Russia's smile faded to a scowl, and in one swift motion with his pipe, he knocked the gun from Alfred's hands before bashing him in the side of the head. Alfred stumbled to the side and collapsed, the blow being the worse thing he ever felt. He would take another civil war over another blow from the metal pipe. He looked up at Russia from his place on the ground as another blow was dealt to his chest. Something cracked loudly, and Alfred cringed together and tried so hard to back away.

"There was once a time I would not of cared if you called me that." Russia growled, lowly. This voice was very different from the fake kiddy tone he always used. This voice was rough, violent, and almost seemed to be the personification of death itself. "In fact, I would have welcomed it, but those times have long since passed. Goodbye Alfred."

With that he pulled his pipe up and left it fall onto the the American's head.

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"Arthur, I will not let you sit around and sulk all day." France said with his hands on his hips. He stood in front of the Brit's table at the bar where a half drunken bottle on whiskey sat.

"It's his birthday, but no one's said anything yet." England replied, solemnly. France frowned at his lover, and for a moment he was at a loss for words. Each year around the same time, England fell into a horrible depression, and it a lot to just begin to bring him out of it. "I just don't want anyone to forget."

"Believe me, mon amour, even if the civilians forget he ever existed, we will all remember him for as long as we're alive." France insured. "He's extremely hard to forget."

"I guess you're right, Francis. I guess you're right." Arthur sighed. He would always remember Alfred, and that was all that mattered.


End file.
